


only in love and murder

by clickingkeyboards



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Fluff, Internal Monologue, M/M, Monologue, Murder, Uncertainty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: a dual-perspective fic.
Relationships: Harold Mukherjee/Bertie Wells, Stephen Bampton/Bertie Wells
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to WantedFangirl, AwkwardSauce0602, Give_Me_A_Karking_KitKat, and celestialskies for accidentally participating in their strange psychology experiment that was the writing of this fic!

to read an internal monologue from Stephen Bampton before he poisons Mr Curtis, read chapter **two**.

to read an internal monologue from Harold Mukherjee as he contemplates properly asking Bertie to date him post-Mistletoe and Murder, read chapter **three**.


	2. stephen.

Felix Mountfitchet is terrifying.

Sure, he shook my hand and he looked nice enough, and his greeting was warm in that cool-uncle way. It made me miss my dad, if I’m honest.

But there was a sparkle behind his eyes, and his grip was a little too tight, and his eyes too searching and knowing for my comfort. Men like him can’t read minds. It's only a fairytale. I hope. I've long since grown out of fairytales.

If men like Felix Mountfitchet could read minds, I would certainly be thrown in jail. Locked up for life for all the things that I'm thinking of doing to  _ him _ .

Bertie’s looking at me askanse. I wonder if he can read my mind too. He’s always been able to. We've always known each other’s every thought. I know him like the back of my hand, and every time I think about it, it blows me away with how lucky I am. He tells me that he believes that he's struck gold, and he means it. I hope he does mean it to the bottom of his heart, because I believe it with my whole being, when I usually never allow myself to think with anything more than my head.

I wonder if he can read my mind, and see what I'm planning. I hope that he doesn't mind. He shouldn’t mind, if he loves me as much as he says he does.

I’m planning on doing it later today.

It almost feels as if I should commemorate the occasion with jewellery, but it almost feels too soon to utter anything more than a promise. A promise, make no mistake, is quite alright with me.

Even just thinking about it, my hands shake and my heart bounds and my head aches, in a way that I surprisingly adore.

This should feel so wrong, so wrong that there’s even a rule against it in the bible that they shove down our throats at school. Not that men like me follow the damn thing anyway.

There are rules against it but I couldn’t care in the slightest.

I would feel more confident about this, if only Felix Mountiftchet wasn’t casting me sideways glances and staring at my shaking hands. It's as if he knows something, alternating his attention between  _ him _ , the bluestocking women, and me.

If Felix Mountfitchet can read my mind, I might be thrown in jail. And the oddest thing is that I do not care in the slightest.

  
  



	3. harold.

Felix Mountfitchet is terrifying.

Sure, he shook my hand and he looked nice enough, and his greeting was warm in that cool-uncle way. It made me miss my dad, if I’m honest.

But there was a sparkle behind his eyes, and his grip was a little too tight, and his eyes too searching and knowing for my comfort. Men like him can’t read minds. It's only a fairytale. I hope. I've long since grown out of fairytales.

If men like Felix Mountfitchet could read minds, I would certainly be thrown in jail. Locked up for life for all the things that I'm thinking of doing to  _ him _ .

Bertie’s looking at me askanse. I wonder if he can read my mind too. He’s always been able to. We've always known each other’s every thought. I know him like the back of my hand, and every time I think about it, it blows me away with how lucky I am. He tells me that he believes that he's struck gold, and he means it. I hope he does mean it to the bottom of his heart, because I believe it with my whole being, when I usually never allow myself to think with anything more than my head.

I wonder if he can read my mind, and see what I'm planning. I hope that he doesn't mind. He shouldn’t mind, if he loves me as much as he says he does.

I’m planning on doing it later today.

It almost feels as if I should commemorate the occasion with jewellery, but it almost feels too soon to utter anything more than a promise. A promise, make no mistake, is quite alright with me.

Even just thinking about it, my hands shake and my heart bounds and my head aches, in a way that I surprisingly adore.

This should feel so wrong, so wrong that there’s even a rule against it in the bible that they shove down our throats at school. Not that men like me follow the damn thing anyway.

There are rules against it but I couldn’t care in the slightest.

I would feel more confident about this, if only Felix Mountiftchet wasn’t casting me sideways glances and staring at my shaking hands. It's as if he knows something, alternating his attention between  _ him _ , the bluestocking women, and me.

If Felix Mountfitchet can read my mind, I might be thrown in jail. And the oddest thing is that I do not care in the slightest.

  
  



End file.
